


didn't they want your blood

by Odaigahara



Series: Soulmate September 2020 Plus [4]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alien Abduction, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Space, Captivity, Humans are space orcs, Implied/Referenced Torture, Language Barrier, M/M, Psychic Bond, Scheming, i cannot be stopped only paused, the loceit is just a layer here this is blatantly an excuse for more space orcs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26676358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odaigahara/pseuds/Odaigahara
Summary: Day 22: Shared Eyesight*Logan keeps his eyes closed when the extraterrestrials drag him into the room, slowing his breathing and relaxing his muscles into figurative dead weight. His abductors clearly have no in-depth knowledge of human physiology, because his sudden relaxation after being drugged nearly an hour before is taken in stride. They leave him on the cold floor, sound fading as they abandon what they think is his unconscious body.Then, as always happens when Logan’s eyes are shut for more than a minute, his soulmate’s view swims into sight.Dull white walls and a white floor; two tanned arms, one noticeably more scarred than the other; a thick metal door and sleek electronic shackles on both ankles. Logan is familiar with the sight, but it still makes his jaw clench, causes his fingers to curl into fists.
Relationships: Deceit | Janus Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders
Series: Soulmate September 2020 Plus [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932382
Comments: 26
Kudos: 177
Collections: Humans Are Space Orcs





	didn't they want your blood

**Author's Note:**

> TW's at end notes.
> 
> Thanks to GoldenMeme for beta reading!!

Logan keeps his eyes closed when the extraterrestrials drag him into the room, slowing his breathing and relaxing his muscles into figurative dead weight. His abductors clearly have no in-depth knowledge of human physiology, because his sudden relaxation after being drugged nearly an hour before is taken in stride. They leave him on the cold floor, sound fading as they abandon what they think is his unconscious body. 

Then, as always happens when Logan’s eyes are shut for more than a minute, his soulmate’s view swims into sight.

Dull white walls and a white floor; two tanned arms, one noticeably more scarred than the other; a thick metal door and sleek electronic shackles on both ankles. Logan is familiar with the sight, but it still makes his jaw clench, causes his fingers to curl into fists.

Regardless, he has had plenty of time to grow used to his soulmate’s degradation. He has something more important to wait for, a signal to find. His soulmate spends a moment longer watching the door, likely in response to some sound on the other side, then turns his head to the writing on the floor of his cell. Evidently, one of his captors was kind enough to afford him a writing implement.

Logan mentally translates the German, then has to resist twitching his lips into a smile. Thank you, Janus.

The message is as follows: _If the charcoal worked, you should see this message by now. Show me your situation._

Now that he’s received the message, Logan is free to follow through. He and Janus have worked through a language barrier, alien phonemes, and the complications of matching their sleep schedules and sending messages in a timely manner; they have it down to a science, when to interact with the world and when to communicate, and once Logan has recovered enough data on this situation, he can write his own message and see what Janus agrees is the next step.

Besides himself, Janus is the most intelligent person he has ever met. So long as their plan works, as nothing unanticipated causes it to go awry-

His chest tightens at the thought of all the variables they may have missed. Janus might insist that the best plans are open to improvisation, but Logan finds it hard to agree. There are too many things they could have missed, and the figurative price of failure is steep.

Irrelevant. Janus says that once the end is understood, one should focus solely on the means, and after observation Logan must admit that he agrees. Dwelling too hard on the outcome can only harm his ability to focus in the moment.

He pretends to awaken slowly, sighing and twitching his hands, then curling over himself and pulling upright, blinking at his surroundings. The ploy of hiding his glasses between his button-down and undershirt seems to have worked; he tugs them out and puts them on, sight clearing, then blinks again, more than a little baffled.

He has not been placed into a solitary cell, as his soulmate’s experience cautioned him to expect; instead, for reasons currently unknown, his abductors- smugglers, Janus claimed, and certainly their attention was easy to get once Logan tracked the signal of their ship and put himself in range, pretending to be a lost hiker- have placed him in captivity with three other extraterrestrials.

Long habit and fascination cause him to stare, cataloguing their features for later, perfect recall. The most prominent of the three is a graceful, lizard-like red alien with long, thin-membraned wings, anatomy somewhere between a butterfly’s and that of a fictional dragon. The wings stretch behind them to the end of a frilled tail, elaborately folded against the quadrupedal being’s spine; they’re dappled white and gold, at least eight feet long- though the being themself is perhaps closer to six- and crumpled oddly at one corner, soaked pale gold. Blood, most likely. Logan wonders what component of the alien’s blood cells causes the color and files away the question for Janus, later.

The other two extraterrestrials are smaller, one pressed against the winged alien’s side and chittering softly and the other silent and snarling; the chittering one appears mammalian, blue-furred with tufted white ears and shaped vaguely like a rabbit, while the other resembles nothing so much as what a woman Logan once tutored would call a sleep paralysis demon. They have a black carapace and eight limbs on a nearly humanoid body, eyes dark and underscored by even darker chitin, and move on all eight limbs, sometimes rearing onto four in order to use the digits on the others. Along their back pulses deep purple bioluminescent spots in what seems to be a threat display.

Ergo, the extraterrestrials- even the injured, winged one, who hissed when Logan first glanced at them and has since drawn back, putting a thin wing over the mammal- believe him to be dangerous. This is an accurate assumption, considering what Logan knows of humanity’s overblown reputation in the wider galaxy. Janus has certainly written him enough treatises on the topic over the years.

 _Years_. To think Logan only learned of him on his eighteenth birthday, at the usual time one gained the ability to access a soulmate’s vision, when Janus, being older, watched through his eyes for two years before that. Now, at twenty, he’s only just become able to carry out what he and Janus have planned for so long.

So much wasted time. Logan doesn’t plan to waste any more.

He surveys his own hands, dissatisfied- if he has to write in his own blood, he risks infection and perhaps a lessened fighting ability, neither of which is acceptable. However, the floor is solid enough that he can’t scratch words into the floor- he checks to be sure, and is confirmed to be correct- and the Sharpie he tucked into his pockets for the journey seems to have been either confiscated or lost somewhere along the way. That leaves his cellmates’ blood, which would not usually be an option... except, of course, that one of them is already injured.

Satisfactory. He contemplates, then reaches up and wrestles off his undershirt, leaving his button-down rubbing unpleasantly against his skin. There is golden blood on the floor, darker and drier; therefore it is likely that the winged alien has blood which coagulates, which means that pressure might be a recommended treatment for the wound. Alternatively, the small mammal may use the undershirt as a softer option for sleep. Either way, Janus has assured him that trade is nearly universal across the galaxy, and truly universal among Allied planets. Hopefully the undershirt will serve as suitable payment.

Logan stands and folds the undershirt carefully against his waist, loathe to let it be wrinkled even now. The aliens sharing his cell seem shaken by the simple movement, winged alien crowding the mammal against the wall and pseudo-arachnid- Logan is _not_ calling them a demon- baring fangs. As he approaches, however, the reason the being hasn’t attacked becomes clear: they’re swaying, movements slow and gaze uncertain, likely drugged with something more effective than the tranquilizers Logan knew beforehand to counteract. When Logan comes within biting range they lunge and shriek, placing themselves between him and their compatriots, shaking violently and snarling in an unintelligible alien language.

Logan doesn’t know how well he can pronounce any of what the Allied planets call Basic, not without a means of transmitting sound as well as sight. He doubts that communication would be effective, and so doesn’t bother. Instead, he pushes past the arachnid, crouching at the end of the largest alien’s wing, and is- somewhat predictably, in retrospect- attacked from behind.

Muscle memory takes over. Logan has trained in every martial art he could fit into his schedule for years, ever since he determined that it would be logical to know how to defend himself; the weight at his back prompts the programmed response, its lightness a softer one- he’s trained with children as an assistant instructor in the past- and the alien is flipped over his head before he can think, hitting the wall and staying there with a rasping cry.

The mammal screams, and Logan freezes. If he’s killed the extraterrestrial- he didn’t intend to, but perhaps he misjudged its durability- but no, it’s attempting to rise to its feet, though it appears exhausted and sore, disoriented in some way.

The winged alien whirls around and snaps at Logan, widening toothless jaws and snarling something, a blur of syllables; Logan hisses, “This would be much easier if you would just cooperate!” and resorts to kneeling where the alien’s wing was, cupping up blood in his hands and showing the meager gain to the being. “This is all I want,” he snaps, frustrated, and the alien rears up, spreading their wings and trembling.

His presence seems to cause more problems than it solves. Logan lets the undershirt stay where it fell- let the aliens use it, it’s not as if he has any particular need for it, and perhaps it will assure them that he doesn’t mean them unnecessary harm- and retreats to his side of the room. The blood is pooled in the center of his palm, a minuscule amount, but it will suffice; Logan dips a finger into it and writes out his message in English. Janus is proficient in it by now.

_Species? Input desired. No restraints/aggression._

The clumsy medium causes it to take up more of the floor than Logan would have preferred. He sits back to keep it all in sight and fixates on it, blinking as little as possible. Janus checks his sight every ten minutes, if he’s able, though circumstances often don’t allow it; Logan’s brief venture to his cellmates absorbed only eight, which means he doesn’t need to check in for another two.

The odds are high that Janus will see his message, though it’s also likely that it will take at least an hour of dumb staring and closed eyes to be sure, or receive a response. Logan cannot _wait_ to speak with him in person.

Thirty minutes pass. Three times, Logan shuts his eyes and sees the same cell, the same message, interchanged with Janus fidgeting or pacing, doing anything to relieve the boredom of his captivity. Logan intersperses his own staring with watching the aliens across from him- they haven’t touched the abandoned shirt, though the winged one seems to be desperately sheltering the arachnid from view- and with playing math games in his head, coming up with random strings of numbers and arranging them into numerators and denominators so that the final result is equal to one.

It’s a habit he formed in elementary school, when the hours dragged by and his work was all finished and his instructors refused to allow him to read in class. 

8, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9. 8 + 4 + 9 = 21, that’s the numerator. 7 + 8 + 6 = 21, that’s the denominator, divide and the ratio is 1. 

He moves on to multiplication, to exponents, anything that takes the edge off the boredom metaphorically devouring his mind, and finally reaches the next ten-minute increment.

Janus has written on the wall of his cell, in German: _Truscan (winged, photosynthetic/amphibious filter feeders, honor-bound/hierarchical); Ghenii (mammal, herbivore/bloodsucker, peaceful/extremely social); I cannot begin to say what I think that third one is, congratulations on finding something more obscure than humanity. First two are likely male, last could be anything. If you have been placed in the same cell as injured Allied species, your smugglers want them dead._

Below, he has written the phonetic notations and translations of three phrases: _help, friend, danger._

Logan commits the image to memory and keeps his eyes closed, something in him easing at sharing his soulmate’s rhythms; as he stares at the wall, the natural rise and fall of his chest affects his sight for a split second, and when he bounces his leg or drums his fingers, Logan can see the movement in his peripheral vision.

Logan wants to be there to hear him pronounce each word in person. He wants to know how those fingers sound, tapping against the material of where his soulmate sleeps- wants to talk to him, rapid-fire and certain, without the delays of estimated response times. He wants, however sentimental, to be able to touch. Touch starvation is a common result of solitary confinement or hostile environments, and in Janus it must be severe. He would be healthier with companionship.

He opens his eyes and finds that the aliens across from him haven’t moved, still bundled together as far from him as possible. The winged alien- the _Truscan_ \- is glaring at him, membranes spread in what might be a threat display. The other two are behind him, out of sight.

Logan rolls the sounds of the three words- help, friend, danger- over in his mind, on the cusp of saying them aloud, but the risk of tipping off his captors is too great. If they’re being watched, the smugglers will know that he has more knowledge than any recently-abducted human should. They may be able to attribute his other eccentricities to so-called Deathworlder nonsense, but attempting language when he’s barely spoken with his cellmates would be much harder to justify.

He lays down in the corner, resting his head against the right angle between the walls, and does his best to go to sleep.

*

Three days later, having received water every day but food not once, he begins to see the shape of the problem. When water is delivered, his three cellmates leave him to take the large bowl first, even as the amphibious Truscan trembles with longing and the unknown species- tentatively also called _he_ , if only because Logan doubts he will ever have the opportunity to ask for clarification, and apparently recovered- paces and glances back at his companions every few moments.

Logan takes the bare minimum, every time, and leaves the bowl in the center of the room. Then the others venture forward and claim the remainder, the Ghenii waiting for the Truscan to drink the majority and then latching onto his shoulder with tiny, gentle teeth to drink what little nutrients he needs- but food never arrives, and Logan finds himself more light-headed by the day.

Janus confirms, when he gives in and bites his arm to write the inquiry in his own blood: _Yes, Logan. They’re meant to be food. I suggest you find a way out soon, unless you’re like me and secretly love devouring the flesh of other sapient creatures._

Another detriment of being unable to see each other is that Janus cannot hear Logan scoff at his sarcasm, or see him roll his eyes. Logan doesn’t even know what Janus’s face looks like, since he has no access to mirrors; all he has is his soulmate’s own description of head injury-induced heterochromia and a face half-scarred, which somehow fails to satisfy. Logan wants to make his own observations.

His stomach aches. His hands and arms and legs and feet ache, head light with dehydration and hunger, and he keeps having involuntary thoughts of hamburgers and milkshakes and thick, savory gravy dribbled over pot roast, like his mother used to make on Sundays. Thoughts of salads and muesli excite similar reactions of saliva production and single-minded longing, but his mind seems to focus more on caloric content, tugging his imaginings back to butter and grease and meat, salt and sugar, something to _bite into_.

No one comes in. No opportunity appears for escape. Logan stops pacing and starts lying down, watching through Janus’s eyes as often as he can get away with it, and is afforded the opportunity to see Janus kill another being.

His captors use him as something between an experimental subject, a producer of adrenaline, and a hired fighter. So long as Janus cooperates, he is allowed basic amenities and more food than usual, even the chance to see more of the galaxy than his tiny cell, to remain unrestrained. He’s been cooperating, in order to bring down the criminals’ guards, but so far it has not yielded as many results as he hoped.

Today, as Logan watches, Janus is brought into a room with a shaking, terrified extraterrestrial, blue-furred and fluffy around the neck and shoulders, stocky and no more than four feet tall. Its teeth are flat and small. Janus, for a moment, struggles to look at it.

His captors- another of the same species, larger and taller, and a pair of tall weasel-like beings that often appear in Janus’s sight as escorts from place to place- speak to the blue alien for over an hour, snarling and gesturing and cutting into it with thin sharp blades, drawing indigo blood. The alien screams and babbles, soundless, and Janus carefully doesn’t blink.

Finally the larger blue extraterrestrial turns to him and says something, and Janus steps forward- and snaps the smaller one’s neck with a single, rapid movement, nearly dislocating its head from its shoulders. The larger alien bares its teeth and slashes him, raising pink welts on his unscarred arm; then Janus collapses, sight darkening, and Logan’s breath catches in his throat, furious, because that means his soulmate is being punished, restraints sparking with electricity and turning against him.

His captors must have intended for him to torture the being further. They hadn't anticipated that he would have wants and thoughts of his own, or would exhibit the predictable empathy of a _social species-_

His sight doesn’t return. Logan opens his eyes, shaking with rage, and the door opens for the first time since his arrival. Immediately he goes still, aborting his attempt at sitting up, and forces himself to breathe in calm, even breaths. The fury laps at his skin under the surface like an incoming tide before a storm at sea, frothing and wilder for every moment it’s held at bay; he has to recite the digits of pi to pull it back, turn it into something he can use instead of a disadvantage.

That’s the only reason he doesn’t sweep his captor’s legs, when a foot prods at his side. He opens his eyes and regards them instead, cataloguing sharp reptilian teeth and a bipedal posture, thick curved claws at the hands- and his captor snarls, face oddly flat and featureless, and kicks him again, harder. Logan absorbs the blow with a huff.

Janus has shared more words in the past few days, and one he thought would become important was _eat_. Logan hears it now, a soft _g_ and a hard click in the back of the throat, a hint of a glottal stop, and doesn’t let his understanding show.

The reptile bites out something else, then strides over to the other three aliens and stomps the Truscan’s wing, receiving a weak shriek of pain. In the past few days, the Truscan has been affected most by the lack of sufficient water, and the arachnid has been gnawing at his own legs, dripping blood into his companion’s mouth in an effort to hydrate him; now he snaps a few terrified syllables and is shocked with the weapon in the reptile’s hands, crying out as the electricity burns his carapace. The Truscan protests- the arachnid gets to his feet and _lunges_ , sinking fangs deep into the reptile’s neck- and the enforcer screams, throwing its attacker back and bashing in two of his legs, heedless of how he tries to scramble back.

Logan needs to get to his feet. He needs- but _no_ , he can’t break his cover- but it doesn’t matter. The Ghenii cries out, and the reptile comes striding back, small alien in hand.

It cuts into him with a claw and lets his orange blood drip to the ground. 

The smell hits Logan’s nose, hot and strangely sweet, and he realizes with a surge of hateful fury that this alien intends to _bait_ him, like a dog or raccoon. That it’s trying to make Logan eat, to make him act as executioner because its own brutality doesn’t extend to killing its victims itself.

Logan is on the ground. The Ghenii is writhing and whining, trying to look back at his injured companions, calling back at them in a high, fluting voice what sounds like a reassurance, and the Truscan is struggling to his feet, wing dragging behind him. The reptile is saying something, _eat_ and _food_ and _friend_ identifiable in the slurry of phonemes, and Logan could not care less what it means to communicate.

His captors sent in a single enforcer to deal with him, having apparently assumed him weak and pliant to begin with. His captors sent in an enforcer with _natural claws_ and a _weapon_.

Sometimes the stupidity of others makes Logan want to grin.

Janus identified this species as something Logan can’t hope to pronounce just yet, a carnivorous species with no real social bonds and a weak point where their limbs meet their bodies; Logan lashes out with his leg, slamming the reptile to the ground, and takes full advantage of this information.

It writhes upright, weapon in hand, but Logan is already in its range, too close to shock. He snaps out another kick, breaking the alien’s leg, then takes hold of its arm as it falls and slams his body weight into it, wrenching the limb free in a spurt of blood. The enforcer burbles and screams, clawing backwards, but the blood loss slows it as Logan watches; he strides forward and slams his shoe into the being’s face once, twice, three times, until its head is pulp on the floor.

Then he takes the arm and pulls each claw loose, choosing the largest as a makeshift knife and tucking the others into his pockets, and hefts the weapon in his other hand. The Ghenii stares at him, unmoved and petrified, and Logan stares back.

Then he squeaks something, stepping forward despite the Truscan’s pained, desperate protests, and Logan recognizes the word _friend_.

“Friend,” he repeats, tasting the syllables, then says, “Friend. Help. Danger.”

The Ghenii freezes, before nearly relaxing, and chirps back, shivering from the wound on his side, “Friend help danger!”

Logan regards him, chest clenching for a reason he doesn’t quite understand. Janus is hurt, in possibly more danger than usual, and may be moved at any time. Logan needs accomplices who can fly spacecraft and read Basic, and his cellmates have already proven to be both nonviolent and willing to cooperate.

His cellmates are injured, too, and may very well slow him down. Logan isn’t certain why these drawbacks seem so much less important than taking them with him.

Perhaps it has something to do with how the Ghenii has been using his undershirt as a bed for the past two days, and how the Truscan determinedly shields his companions whenever Logan glances in their direction, and how the arachnid keeps watch every night, bristling whenever Logan comes close.

He needs to find Janus. It would be practical to obtain allies to help him achieve that goal, and he can’t expect one cellmate to help him if he excludes the others. As such, he has to take them all with him.

The Truscan is on his feet, managing to move toward him and carrying the injured arachnid on his back. The Ghenii is in front of him, shaking and looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

Logan scoops him up and tucks him under his arm, adjusting the weapon in his other hand, and makes a few adjustments to his plan.

He isn’t necessarily certain that Janus will approve- in fact, he almost definitely won't- but that will have to wait until the next time Logan is able to close his eyes.

For now, he has a ship to steal. 

**Author's Note:**

> TW: implied/referenced torture/captivity/eating other sapient beings, blood drinking, dismemberment, implied electrocution, implied drugging, hunger


End file.
